Soul Food

Earlier this week, I tried my hand at a new recipe when it was my night to cook dinner-- bacon mac and cheese, a homage to the recent losers of a cooking show I've been following. I may have forgotten to strain out the milk clumps, and it may have momentarily caught fire in the oven, but overall it was a pretty tasty turnout. It felt like a soul food success, but some other events this past week have reminded me how much more is involved with feeding the soul.

In getting the students I work with involved in community service, I've discovered a wonderful ministry that makes sandwiches right next door to my house.  Stopping by before work to help them out has been a huge boost for me as well, because while the work I do at school is surely service, there's a different sort of joy that comes from seeing a stack of sandwiches pile up, and it's the sort of fulfillment I hadn't realized how much I missed.

Another group I've recently joined is the El Paso Young Adult Ministry. I've been going for a few weeks and it's given me a familiar type of happiness that I felt doing clubs in college. This past meeting, they did a service project that was, again, making sandwiches. It's an easy task for a big group of people to participate in, and one that has a quick payoff in terms of impact visibility.

We prepared about 35 brown paper bags, each with two sandwiches, a piece of fruit and Capri Sun. It was a pretty quick project in terms of prep. Then what we did was split into three groups, pile into groups, and drive around El Paso in search of homeless people to whom we could give food. This was different from any other service I'd done, where it was generally under the supervision of some certified non-profit. I'll admit I was honestly pretty nervous, because it was late at night and I didn't know my way around, no one really knew where I was, and I'd just watched a terrifying documentary on the violence in Juarez.

At the start of our expedition, we were sort of driving in circles and unable to find anyone. It was a weird sort of game: "Is that someone?" "No", "No", "Yes!!"

The first legitimate homeless we encountered were two men in a sort of walled-in parking lot. I felt like we must have seemed really suspicious driving up to them, but when we rolled down the window and asked if they were hungry, they seemed happy to take the brown bags. The one thing I remember about our first 'find' is that they had a cat carrier, and a small cat sitting between the two. I've missed my cats these two months, and it was a sort of humanizing connection I hadn't expected to see.

The second pair of people that we encountered was when we were walking around the downtown section on foot. We'd spotted them driving by, but had to park a ways away first. As we approached, I held back, because I was anxious about being the first one to start conversation.

Him: "Can you spare any change?"
Us: "How about some sandwiches?"

The expression on his face has been in my mind all week. How many times have I completely ignored someone asking for change on the streets of Philadelphia? Too many, and I've known this for a while now. The surprise and gratitude in his voice was overwhelming as he thanked us. He spoke clearly, though his companion, a woman he described as from New Orleans, was harder to understand. His name was Lester, and he asked us about a concert going on nearby, shook all of our hands and asked our names. We spoke for a while but then pulled ourselves away, explaining that we had to distribute the rest of the bags. We wished him a good night.

Our third and final stop for the evening was in response to a call from another of our groups, who had run out of bags. We joined them at 9th and Oregon, a street on the very extreme edge of the United States border. There, along a low stone wall, were at least 20 men trying to sleep. Some had blankets, most were cushioned by cardboard boxes.

I was uncomfortable. I didn't want to stay and gawk at their situation; I wanted to distribute the remaining bags as fast as possible and head home. But the group insisted in heading down the line together, so I did. When we were nearly finished and walking back to the car, one man from the line stood up and walked towards us. He wanted to know who we were and why we were doing this. When we explained it was an organization of 'Catolicos', he misheard and thought we said 'Alcoholicos', and joked (I suppose it was jokingly) that "Todos aqui son alcoholicos", "everyone here is alcoholic".

And then when we gave him his food bag, the last that we had, he didn't want to stop talking. His name was Guillermo. His wife and 5 year old daughter had both died in a short period of time, and he couldn't find work anywhere he looked. He was angry at God, he was fighting for justice, and he was in an immense amount of pain. He cried, and was ashamed of it. He talked with us for about a half hour, all in Spanish so I couldn't always keep up. At the end we prayed together, and he embraced us all.

On the drive back to where all our cars were waiting, we passed by where we had seen Lester earlier. He was seated on the concrete edge of a building, head bowed, and looking profoundly alone.

I'm not telling this story because I think I did anything great. I don't want anyone to compliment me for taking an hour to give some people food. I know there is so much more to do. I'm writing this because I want you to consider Lester and Guillermo, the woman from New Orleans and the men with their cat. They are the heroes of a story that has never been told, a tragedy that unfolds every day. The 'soul food' I make reference to in the title is that of human interaction, of being considered worthy of conversation and existence.

In the way that everything seems to come full circle, the day after I did the food distribution, I found this news segment that features a non-profit I used to work with back home. About a minute in, one of the guests explains that he goes to the kitchen not because he needs food, but "the socialization of people, and talking to people."

My all-time favorite song is called Everybody, by Ingrid Michaelson, with the lyrics of "everybody wants to love, everybody wants to be loved." It's such a simple idea, and one that resonates with me deeply in times like this. Love people, everybody. We all just want to be loved.